


Coffee Kisses

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cameo Appearance of an Overprotective Big Brother, Coffee date, Day One, December 1st, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, It's in the Omake, M/M, Mild Profanity, RusAme Holiday, RusAmeHolidayPrompts, Tumblr Prompt, prompt 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8723386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #1: Coffee Date





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the trip I took with my cousin out to Harrow on the Hill (an actual tube station out by Northwood) when I was visiting her in London a few years ago. St. Ann’s is an actual shopping center, there is an actual Costa there – which is the coffee shop I’m basing this whole story on – and their hot chocolate beats Starbucks hands down. Now Dunkin’s White Hot chocolate is a whole different story, but anyways…ENJOY!

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered as he strode through the throng of people debarking from the platform. The voice above them, chanting _mind the gap_ repeatedly, was playing on his nerves like a violinist drawing a bow on a badly tuned string. He wondered, idly, how England dealt with the repeated chaos, but rethought his idle thought. He dealt with it as well; he could just _see_ his brother-mentor-father figure exploding in a rage if he ever tried to make a joke out of it. His lips twitched as the mental image devolved into a fight fest, and he made a mental note to bring it up the next time he and Arthur were in the same room.

            He needed the stress relief.

            He slipped his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, tucking away the blue and purple oyster card into the wallet hidden in its depths. He pulled the garment even closer to him when he finally exited the station and was assailed by the fervent wind. He could practically taste the rain in the air as the temperature dropped, and his fingers curled into the depths of his pocket even as he cursed himself for not bringing anything warmer than his bomber jacket, and then he cursed again because he hadn’t been allowed to wear it. All thanks to that stupid bet.

            A wicked smirk pulled over gleaming teeth, set under a set of victorious violet orbs flashed in his mind, but he shook the image away, nuzzling deeper into the warm scarf he’d unearthed from his travel bag earlier that morning. He’d have to hide it away later though, he thought, as he relished in the flash of warmth it brought him, even as it fogged up his glasses. It wouldn’t do to let the other see him wearing it. He’d only worn it because he’d had little other choice. Actually, now that he thought about it, he _hadn’t_ had a choice.

            All because of that stupid, _stupid_ bet he’d made.

            That stupid, _stupid_ bet he’d _lost_.

            He bit his lip harshly, trying to stop the scowl from forming on his face. The damned bastard had known he would lose. It hadn’t even been a contest. But what kind of hero would he have been if he had turned down the challenge; if he hadn’t even tried to put his foot forward? Everyone would’ve known then, not just smirking violet eyes. He remembered the warmth of the whiskey he’d been drinking, the warmth and possessiveness in the arm that had wrapped around him, and the lips that pressed softly against his neck in the shadows of the room, where no one could see either of them, as the world around him began to blur. He thought again, of that victorious grin – that scimitar sharp smile he’d been given when the cards went down, and he’d realized what had happened, unnoticed by anyone else – and shoved his mental reasoning out the window.

            He should’ve just said no.

            A force that came at him from the side caused him to nearly stumble into on coming traffic before he managed to snag the lamppost nearby and stabilize himself. He bit his lip, and offered an apology to the distraught person who’d nearly sent him into a crash collision with an angry car – remembering many times how England would chastise him saying that _no America, pedestrians don’t have the bloody right of way here, they need to damn well watch where they’re going_ – before moving closer to the store side of the sidewalk. At least the St. Ann’s Shopping Centre wasn’t very far from the tube station. Barely a minute and he would be there.

            And, indeed, he slipped into the Marks and Spencer’s street entrance, which opened up into the mall proper. He felt the warmth – not as potent as the heaters in some of his own malls, which would’ve been roasting him by now – cascade over him in a delightful waterfall of heat. There was a Millie’s Cookies putting out pizza pie styled chocolate chip cookies as he walked in, cutting them in the traditional slice and layering them with delightful shades of frosting. They were beautiful holiday treats, and he eyed a green Christmas tree frosted one with fondness. England had once helped him make Christmas cookies – burnt, horribly mangled, and completely inedible, but still – and seeing them, wherever he was, made him nostalgic.

            The growl in his stomach also told him that they made him hungry. He glanced down to his stomach, rubbing it soothingly and glancing at the cookies longingly before moving through the mall’s hallway, away from the intoxicating scent of baking chocolate chip cookies. He could practically feel his expression sour. That was another term in the bet he’d lost. He was missing out on Millie’s cookies.

            Maybe he could convince England to bring him out here again?

            He snorted, just as the thought crossed his mind. Not likely.

            He strode down the hallway, glancing at his watch occasionally, but otherwise taking his time and going at his own pacing. The mall had already been decorated festively for the season, wreaths and garlands of pine, holly, and more adorning the halls, the doors, as they draped down with the weight ornaments, tinsel, and red velvet bows.

            It was only a few minutes walk before he was back outside, into a row of outdoor shops and cafés, a good sprinkling of people – kids wearing school uniforms, adults with a hurry in their step, and a pair of collage aged girls laughing at each other, spilled ice cream on the floor between them and on them – and he curled into his scarf and hoodie as the cold hit him with a ferocity. He’d never been to this shopping center in particular, but he knew the shop he was looking for was just around the – aha!

            He pushed open the wooden framed door gently, minding his strength, and then held it open for the young couple trailing behind him, who smiled at him thankfully. The interior of the café was warm wooded and warm toned, with plentiful seating – cushioned couches, armchairs, as well as plain old chairs and wooden tables – and a modest line. He slipped through the welcome store and caught sight of a table in the corner of the window wall. It had two armchairs facing each other, and a generous little table in the middle, standing right besides the storefront window, against the wall.

            It was a good spot, he mused, settling into the armchair against the wall, watching the throng of people buzz outside as the tucked their coats closer to their bodies and moved casually through the mall center. There was no sense of urgency in the warmth of the café, just a gentle sense of the holiday cheer that was starting to permeate the atmosphere all over. He knew his people were already throwing themselves into the holiday season – Black Friday had been a wreck as usual, not that he’d been expecting anything different, and holiday music was playing on the twist of every radio dial and on every music station – but Christmas in Europe had always been something different. Even to him.

            It was beautiful regardless.

            A mug was set down in front of him, wafting the scent of warm melted chocolate, hot milk, and sugary marshmallows right into his nose when he jumped, inhaling sharply at the sudden movement. Violet eyes gleamed at him, amused and ever so slightly vindictively pleased at being able to startle him. It wasn’t like they both tried their hardest to catch the other off guard, after all.

            Ah, sarcasm, thou art missed.

            Another mug settled in front of the other chair as the larger nation draped his coat over the back of the armchair before seating himself. America reclined in his own chair, eyeing the other as he shifted to get comfortable, before glancing down at the star shaped marshmallows topping the whipped cream on his hot chocolate.

            They sat in silence for a bit before he said, “No coffee? Bit of an odd place to meet, then.” Russia raised an eyebrow at the almost blasé question, but he knew the elder had caught the way his hand had clenched around the handle of the mug as he’d wrapped his hands around the smooth porcelain for warmth. He glanced up at the violet eyes that had yet to leave his form, his own gaze inquiring. The elder nation simply raised his own mug, and his nostrils flared slightly as he caught the scent of freshly brewed dark coffee beans with a hint of chocolate and something _else_. He snorted quietly.

            Of course he’d spike it. Coffee certainly wasn’t usually strong enough for most nations to make a habit of indulging in it often, let alone the two of them, save for in large quantities. He just dealt with the massive caffeine intake, whereas his counterpart used the age-old tension reliever: alcohol.

            It may not have been the classic bourbon or green-bottled rum – smells which he’d memorized by heart since England would come back to him with their scents draped all over him when he was a colony, and even sometimes as a nation – but he’d been around Russia long enough to recognize the faintest scent of the colorless liquor.

            There was more silence, and he crossed his boots at the ankles, shifting to get more comfortable in the stillness. The hustle of the coffee shop they were in seemed to fade away the longer they stayed around each other. He disliked the implications of that. But Russia wasn’t still for no reason, and he could _feel_ those eyes scanning him, searching him and taking him in. He wondered what the other nation was looking f…oh. He forced the flush down from his cheeks as he shifted a bit and reached up to tug the zipper of his hoodie down a bit. A flash of silver gleamed against the dark material, as the green t-shirt he’d worn over a faded ash grey long-sleeve was revealed casually. He shrugged himself out of the hoodie, though he missed the warmth it provided right away, and reached for the mug on the table, cradling it close in his lap. The extra movement didn’t bother the elder nation, though; Russia had eyes for only one thing.

            A grin, which would’ve terrified the rest of the world and sent several nations crying with agonized recollection if they’d been there to see it, spread across Russia’s face, and he barely restrained himself from recoiling backwards as the other nation leant into his personal space, eyes entranced by the gleam of silver against his neck. “You wore it.”

            He scowled and shoved the other away – or rather, he tried to – lips curling into an even deeper frown, as the larger nation curled a hand around the wrist of the arm he’d tried to push the other away with. The other refused to budge, and his grin only grew, smugness and a good deal of possessiveness shining through in that expression. “Don’t get used to it,” he growled, “I lost the damned bet, that’s the only reason.”

            The damned bastard laughed loudly, retreating to his own armchair, releasing his grip on America’s wrist in the process. He restrained the urge to rub at his wrist, knowing, without even looking, that there would be a bruise there within an hour or two, especially with how tightly the other man kept his grip. Russia took a swig of his coffee, not even grimacing a little bit at the taste of the bitter beverage. He rolled his eyes at the other, and stole the cup from the table once Russia had put it down.

            The other only raised a brow, relaxing back into his armchair, smirking as America took a swig out of his cup. He twitched a bit at the look he was getting, as well as the taste of the drink that he’d just swirled around his taste buds, before shoving the mug back at the other and taking a swig of his own hot chocolate. “How do you drink that shit?” he asked, rolling the new, milky sweet taste in his mouth, humming a bit when it slid down his throat with ease. He did love a good mug of hot chocolate. Lord knew Starbucks could only make it so and so (though he’d _never_ admit it, especially not to England); he might come back to this place the next time he was in England’s neighborhood.

            “You drink it enough to know that answer, Alfred,” that answer got the Russian nation a sharp glare. He knew they had to use their human names in public to keep people from suspecting suspicious things – and by nature, nations were actually pretty attention drawing, so anything they did usually had to be carefully measured to make sure they didn’t draw the _wrong_ sort of attention, even though there were safeguards in place for that – but there was a certain amount of intimacy in using each other’s first names, so nations usually sought permission for that. Until then, last names were the rule of law.

            Though, to be honest, he and Russia had long since passed the time where using first names should’ve been commonplace. He rather thinks it has to do with the first time he woke up with the Slavic nation’s arm wrapped around his waist, something that was _definitely_ not a gun pressing against the small of his back, and a nasty ache throbbing through his body, starting in his ass. He didn’t even have a chance to freak out properly back then, cause Russia had woken up, rolled him onto his back, and initiated round Lord only knows which.

            “Why’d you want to come here?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had developed again, and the other only smirked.

            “You lost the bet,” he said, amused, and Alfred scowled.

            “You _knew_ I would,” he almost snarled, “you suggested it to Prussia, and he was drunk enough so he’d think it was _his_ idea, so there was no way he’d let me out of it! This was a fucking set up.”

            “ _Da_ ,” the other agreed easily, making him stiffen, “of course it was. But if it meant getting you to do what I want for a few days, then it was worth it. Besides, is that not what our little game is about?”

            Their _little game_ , huh? It was a pretty accurate game, actually. Ever since the first morning he’d woken to find himself encircled in Ivan’s possessive embrace, he’d found it harder and harder to keep it a secret. And Ivan had no qualms about trying to trip him up, get him to spill the beans on accident. The rest of the world had always suspected that they’d been sleeping together – especially during the Cold War, when the sexual tension had built up to a nearly unbearable level – but when it actually happened, they were far from in a position to handle it. And if it got out that _America_ had been the one to initiate things – which was something he _cringed_ at whenever he remembered that first, intoxicated night they’d shared – well, he’d lose a lot of support, especially from those closest to him. And he’d only _just_ gotten them to stop presuming that he slept around more than France did, which did awful things to his already poor reputation. He enjoyed sex just like every other nation, which was hardly a crime. He’d hate for the slut talk to start up again; he fully understood why his kids hated that talk back home.

            So he’d had to forfeit his bet with Russia to keep the truth between the two of them – and potentially any nations who’d seen the two of them together, and he was suspicious that some of them had – but Russia had interfered in the game, like he always did, trying to trip the American up. Which is how he got to where he was, wearing a silver choker chain with the old soviet symbol – the hammer and sickle – in polished gold, like a collar proclaiming to all _exactly_ whom he belonged to.

            _Goddamnit_ , he didn’t belong to _anyone_ but his people.

            But sometimes…when things were too intense, or the world to demanding…he would remember that he was still only a few centuries old. England had been around for millennia when he’d first taken on the mantle of empire, and both Egypt and Rome had been far older. He’d only barely brushed his bicentennial as a nation towards the middle of the Cold War, and he was hardly older than that. Sometimes…sometimes it felt _good_ to belong to someone; to be cared for and have that weight shifted off of his shoulders, even if it was only for a little bit.

            And the only one who’d ever been able to do that for him had been Russia.

            Russia stood from his chair, catching his wandering attention, and set his mug down, before moving closer to hold an arm out. He raised a brow, as if saying _you’re not serious, are you_ , but the arm remained, and he sighed. He had agreed to it, after all.

            He stood, shrugging on the hoodie he’d brought over, before hooking his arm through Ivan’s – though not without a discrete glare at the other man – who tugged him even closer, until he could feel the man’s warmth through their clothes. It always baffled him that people talked about how cold Russia could be even when just standing near him, but he was always toasty warm when the other nation was around him.

            He was – he bit back a wince – _escorted_ out of the coffee shop and into the frigid English weather. It wasn’t any worse than New York weather, to be honest, but it was persistent, and Ivan had hidden away his bomber jacket for the duration of his visit. And he was not about to ask the other for the warmth of _his_ jacket.

            Ivan letting go of him a few minutes into their walk towards the tube station startled him, but not as much as when he felt a hand slip down to the edges of his jeans, curling around his hip possessively, like it wanted inside (he knew it did; Ivan was very fond of his ass for whatever reason, and he usually didn’t hesitate to exploit that when it came to their game). He could feel his cheeks warming, but his force of will was the only thing that kept him from jumping when he caught sight of Ivan’s smirk out of the corner of his eye, violet eyes practically caressing him with their possessive yet gentled gaze. He felt his cheeks warm even more and tried valiantly to suppress the rush of blood to his face. Of course, Ivan pulling him closer as they walked past yet another holiday storefront to drag him into another deep, passionate, devouring kiss didn’t help at all.

            He forcefully repressed the urge to shove the other nation clear across the two lanes of traffic and into the nearest building. That would violate the terms he’d been given when he lost the bet.

            Oh, and England would murder him for the property damage.

            He didn’t even get the chance to swear at the other for the surprise, as he was spun into an alley within seconds after he’d shoved the other away, and just when he was going to elbow his rather forceful companion, he felt chilled, soft lips slant against his own winter chapped ones. He’d been shoved against the brick wall, his mind realized absently, but all his attention was concentrated on the warmth of the mouth devouring his own, the tongue teasing and tasting him, practically branding him with its intensity, and the hand sneaking stealthily down the back of his pants, sliding carefully within the tight denim to grip his ass firmly. He let out a rather choked moan – which was devoured rather quickly by the other nation’s relentless lips – and nearly jumped at the grip, but the violet-eyed nation was immovable.

            Those lips left him, then; breathless, stunned, and a tad molested – which, in all honest, he should have expected – he just stood there as Ivan fixed his appearance before reaching a hand out, tilting his head back against the wall he’d been pinned to, and brushing a gloved thumb over his kiss-swollen lips with deep sated satisfaction flittering through his eyes.

            “Until tonight then, dorogoy,” the elder nations said, the slight curve of an anticipatory smirk barely visible. The hand withdrew, and he drew himself up, pushing the shock away, but the other nation had already walked away. He stood there, stunned, for a minute, long enough for the other nation to have vanished into the darkening evening, and the hustle and bustle of the holiday season shoppers. He reclined against the wall, trying to tell himself it was a scowl he was trying to keep off of his face (he wasn’t succeeding, which was surprising, given how good he was at self-delusion sometimes).

            His tongue darted out to lick his lips for a split second, and he almost hummed as the taste of bitterly sweet coffee and the slightest hint of vodka made its way into his system, before he realized exactly what he was doing.

            And if anyone noticed the faint rosy blush splashed across his cheeks under the moonlight, they certainly didn’t say a word.

            (Well, the violet-eyed nation spying on him certainly had something to say, but he would take his victories where he could get them, and confronting the already agitated nation at the moment was a good way to get nowhere fast. He enjoyed frustrating the other nation, but even he realized that mentioning it would be a very bad idea. His vital regions would thank him later. England would not. Make of that what you will.)

* * *

 

**BONUS – OMAKE**

            He’d just been about to settle down into slumber, tossing an arm around his companion – who curled into him, happily leaching the warmth from his body instead of the chilled room, the temperature of which hadn’t changed, even with their _activities_ – when he heard the door crash open. In the seconds before his mind went from sleepy, sated, and mildly sex stupid, he wondered at who was disturbing them and how the hell they’d gotten in. And then, well…he certainly didn’t need to wonder any more.

            “ _MY BABY!_ ” came the demonic shriek from the doorway, and suddenly the Slavic nation felt abnormally concerned for his wellbeing. He glanced down at the blond nation who’d splayed himself out on the bed, spread out comfortably, and naked as the day he came to be (save one tiny exception), ignoring the voice’s existence in favor of sleep.

            Green eyes glinted at him, an unholy light brightening them like verdant tinted hellfire. Those wretched eyes glared at him first, before they dropped to take in the young nation he’d been cradling, and the violet-eyed nation could feel the air around them crystallize and freeze with the sudden intensity that had entered the air. Wicked verdant orbs took in every detail; every darkened hint of a mark on tanned skin, the ring of bites made lovingly, possessively, complimenting the silver of the necklace chain along the younger nation’s collar bone, following down his stomach to the hand shaped bruises on curved hips, and – Ivan felt his heart stop as hellfire eyes glowed brighter with renewed fury – the unmistakable dried stains of release trailing down Alfred’s thighs.

            “ _My. Baby._ ” This time the voice was growled low, almost inaudible, but chilling nonetheless, and he glanced into green eyes and saw death and destruction and utter despair in those torturous eyes. “You touched _my baby_.”

            Maybe celebrating his win over the blond nation in this city had been a bad idea. Why, oh why, did America never mention that England turned into a raging psychopath whenever it concerned the safety of his baby brother? Oh, right: because the entire world _already knew that_.

            _Definitely a bad idea_.


End file.
